


Blood Red Handprints

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Hand Jobs, Jaskier has a blood kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Geralt comes back bloody from a hunt, seeing the Witcher all worked up and messy gives Jaskier some... unexpected ideas.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	Blood Red Handprints

The blood probably shouldn’t be the first thing he notices.

There are layers to this situation. _Layers_. And the blood hardly feels like the most important one, when Geralt’s eyes are black and ink seems to run through his veins. Teeth a touch too sharp, nails a touch too claw like, gods know there are other things to focus on.

And yet, he can’t help but find himself drawn to the silky red liquid, coating the Witcher’s hands, freckled across the man’s face, a few lazy droplets clinging to his lips.

He wants to kiss them off, wants to crush the droplets against his skin, feel the slick, smooth wetness of the blood on Geralt’s hands spread and smeared so pleasantly across his body-

Jaskier sucks in a breath. Drags his eyes away from the steady dripping of blood from fingertips, arms coated almost until the elbow, too much to be the Witcher’s own blood, deep and red, rhythmic in it’s fall-

He sucks in a breath. shakes his head, trying to push down the thoughts that seem to spring to mind out of nowhere, tumbling over themselves in excitement at the possibilities. At those hands-

He doesn’t get to see Geralt like this. Not usually, the man was like a cat, slink off after a hunt and lick his wounds in private. Until the fight wore out of his veins, the deadly black fire burnt out of his eyes. Until he was no more than almost a man again.

The few times Jaskier had seen him directly afterwards it was always because something had gone wrong. Geralt had taken a blow he shouldn’t have, shoulder torn open, or perhaps his chest, one terrifying time it was the stomach, intestines half spilling out, causing the poor bard to lose his own lunch into the dirt before being able to even think of helping.

It was always something too big. Too deep, too deadly for Geralt to leave it, to slink off and let it start to heal on its own.

So instead, he would slink back, looking rugged, broken. Wound almost on display, body curled in on itself, fire gone from his spirit, even if the potions still swum in his veins.

But Jaskier can see no wound this time. No tear or break demanding stitches, no bone to push back into place, just Geralt, chest heaving, eyes dark, blood soaked into otherwise bone white hair.

He thinks about asking why then, why the Witcher is here, stood on the edge of camp, only just in the edges of the light, the edges of the firesides bright glow, why he wasn’t hidden away in some corner, licking the few wounds he had and letting the fire burn out of his veins.

He thinks of asking, but he isn’t sure the man would even answer if he did. He realises then, eyes focused on the shine of sweat on Geralt’s face, the trickle of blood down his brow, that Geralt hadn’t said a word sense his arrival.

He takes a step back, Geralt follows with a step forward, swaying in, swaying closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough he can feel the warmth of Geralt’s breath, smell the burnt metallic heat of the blood soaked against his skin.

He takes another step back, to stop himself from stepping forward. Stop himself from burrowing his nose against Geralt’s neck and inhaling the thick scent, the smell of the Witcher and the sweat and smoke left over from the fight.

He steps back, and Geralt follows, lets him lead them in this dance, a step forward, a step back, staying only just outside of each other’s space with each move. Just out of each other’s reach, only just almost touching. Only just not.

He leads them back to the camp, to the soft warmth of the gently burning flames, light enough to see Geralt properly, no longer half coated in the shadows of the night.

He had half hoped it would help, seeing the man’s face plain in the light. Seeing the mess of the fight that clung to his clothes, that it would bring him back somehow, make it real enough to banish the heat growing in his chest, the thoughts still pushing their way into his mind.

It does not. it does not help, does not smother the heat, far from it, if anything, he finds it makes it worse. The light only highlights the the darkness of Geralt’s eyes, the glint of sharp white teeth, and red. Gods the red. Blood catches in the firelight, glistening where it paints the skin.

He wants to touch.

He wants those red hands to touch him.

He nudges Geralt down, onto the overturned tree trunk they had taken to using as a seat. A hand presses against Geralt’s shoulder, pushes him down, holds him there. Its not quite a touch, skin meeting smooth leather, not the skin it wants, but it is close.

It is close, gods so close, he can almost feel the warmth of Geralt’s skin, the softness, gentle touch...

It would be so easy, to lift his hand ever so slightly, brush thumb against flesh, run it down that jaw line and press in against soft lips…

Geralt leans in, as though he can tell what he is thinking, head tilted to the side, toward his hand. As though reaching for him. As though asking for the touch.

He shouldn’t… he can’t…

His hand seems to turn of its own accord, curls around the Witcher’s jaw, cradling it for a moment, holding the man’s face in his hand. Not quite the touch he had initially intended, not quite what he had in mind, but so much all the same.

Geralt groans into the touch, pressing in against it, firm and solid. Eyelids flutter shut for a second, a breath that neither of them had quiet been aware of releases itself from his chest.

Jaskier pulls in a breath in return, his own chest seems to tighten at the touch rather than relax, the fire in his chest burning brighter, asking for more. 

He curls the hand away, and Geralt lets it leave, still not having spoken a word sense his return.

Jaskier turns his attention to the thick leather straps of Geralt’s armour. Nimble fingers tug loose stubborn buckles, pulling them free.

Buckles fall open, fall aside, letting him pull off the Witcher’s armour, piece by stubborn piece.

Blood he hadn’t even noticed, dark against the black leather jumps to soak into his fingers. Stain them red and bright and burning, make them slick against the fabric, fighting for a hold.

He tugs determined leather from Geralt’s shoulder’s, the Witcher seemingly content to let him do all the work. Not that he’s complaining, at the chance to touch, the chance to slide soft hands over that firm chest, still covered in cloth as it may be.

It is all he wants, to touch and press and explore. Clever fingers dance against a body, under the guise of looking for wounds, searching out any cut or scratch he may not have noticed yet, finding next to nothing.

Certainly nothing large enough to explain the Witcher’s presence. Nothing needing stitches or much care beyond the wipe of a clean rag, water would wash away the worst of it with ease.

Not that he makes any move to get one, get anything to clean free the blood, leave that beautiful skin clean and clear and free of the red, staining beauty that currently coated it.

Instead, he carefully encourages off the Witcher’s shirt, to get a better look he tells himself, check for anything he may have missed. He knows he hasn’t missed anything, he knows but he does it all the same, for his own guilty reasons.

Geralt’s chest glistens in the shifting firelight, slick with sweat and smeared with blood, the thick liquid slipped round leather and soaked through fabric to sit against the skin.

Gods that skin.

He touches.

He probably shouldn’t. he knows that, knows there’s no excuse for it, no reason… and yet still, he touches.

Soft fingers dance against flesh, brushing against the Witcher’s chest, dancing out a path against the skin, no sense of direction, no plan, just the driving desire to touch. To feel and have and hold.

Fingers tangle in thick hair, nails scratch against skin, all the while he waits for the man to pull back, waits for the Witcher to pull away, push back the hands that wander where they shouldn’t…

And yet he doesn’t.

Instead, in time, the Witcher’s hands raise themselves, press against him, press against his shirt, a hand curls over his hip, steadying. Holding still. 

Perhaps that was all it was, a move to steady him, steady himself. Nothing more. Geralt leaves bright fingerprints in the place of every touch, white undershirt all too soon patterned in blood, a red hand pressed against his heart, his hips, marking him with each move.

He presses in, against the touch, lets Geralt take the weight of his body in his hands, lets those sharp fingers press into him. it feels as though they are burning into his flesh, even through the cloth.

A comfortable sigh tugs itself from between his lips, head hug heavy, lips brush for a moment, against Geralt’s forehead. Hands still wandering, pressing and stroking and feeling, as best they can.

Somehow hands that are not his own find their way to the front of Jaskier’s shirt, working open knots, letting the front hang open, skin on display.

Geralt is quick to press a hand to the skin, to his chest, bare as it now was.

He shutters at the touch. At the cold, slick press of it, the smear of blood that now marks out the location of his heart. Feels his cock twitch in his pants- Gods.

The hand on his hip tugs up the fabric of his shirt, finding the skin there too, marking it in turn. It encourages the shirt on upwards, tugs it up, over Jaskier’s head. Leaving his body clear to the cold of the evening air.

He shivers at the brush of it, even warmed by the heat of the fire as it is.

Geralt’s hands are cold against his skin, yet somehow burn with every touch as they explore his chest in turn, leaving bright, messy streaks of red in their wake. Chest painted in blood. In blood and beauty, just as Geralt was.

He moans at the touch, the feeling, Geralt’s hands bright against his skin.

It is so much, too much, and everything, and not enough, all at once.

One of the hands that wandered Geralt’s chest finds its way to the Witcher’s neck, wrap around it for a moment, pressing comfortably against the man’s throat. Feels the pulse of the blood beneath his fingers, the flutter of breath- hand squeezing, ever so slightly-

Geralt growls at the move, lip curled up over sharp teeth that snap, the threat of more, threat of a bite left hanging in the air.

And yet for all the show Geralt doesn’t pull away from the press, if anything pushing in further, pressing up, into the press. Throat pushed flush against hand, fingers digging into soft skin.

Jaskier gasps, fingers squeeze once more, tightening for just a moment before releasing. Before curling under Geralt’s firm jaw, tilting it up, letting him all but crash their faces together, bending down to press his needy lips to the Witcher’s. swallow down the remains of Geralt’s snarl.

The kiss is messy, violent and needy. Teeth nip at lips, tugging and pulling, skin caught and yanked on, tongue bright with blood.

He licks up the blood, licks it clean from Geralt’s lips, Geralt’s mouth, bright and sharp and metallic, it feels as though it slices through his tongue, and yet he licks it up all the same. Let it shred his tongue to ribbons, if that is what it takes, let it burn and bubble and flame as it drips down the back of his throat.

He swallows it all down, desperate for each and every drop.

The hands press into his hips, thumbs pushing against the bone, hard enough to bruise. Not that he minds, let it leave its mark, leave proof of this. A reminder pressed into his hipbones.

Sharp teeth nip at his bottom lip, pulling out a sharp hiss from between his lips. He gasps, panting out a desperate, needy breath.

He curls a hand in Geralt’s hair, offers it a sharp, determined tug. Feels Geralt growl out against his mouth.

He tugs again.

Geralt _snarls_ and he gasps at the sound. Presses in close, almost all but climbing into Geralt’s lap. The hand exploring his chest brushes gently over one of Jaskier’s nipples and he moans at the touch.

Geralt chases the sound, nails scratch against skin, deep enough to leave a mark. It works, Jaskier shivers at it, gasping at the touch. Nails dig in deeper, almost feeling like they are clawing their way into his chest, as though they wanted to crack open his ribcage, pull free his very heart.

He presses into the touch, presses into the pain, chasing it for more. He drags a hand down Geralt’s back, fingers dancing over muscles, slick and strong. 

He gives up on holding back, slings a leg over Geralt’s, and half scrambles, half falls into the Witcher’s lap. Geralt grunts at the impact, hand leaving Jaskier’s chest to hold his back, hold him close, chests pressed together, blood and sweat spread between them.

It is messy, liquid drips from his brow, mouths smashing together, lips red and swollen. It is messy and it is wonderful.

Jaskier groans, grinds down against Geralt as best he can, cock hardening at the pressure. The wonderous, torturous pressure, just enough to feel good, just enough to hurt.

He wants more.

The hand on Jaskier’s hip squeezes, fingers pressing in tight. One hand presses flat against the skin, fingertips shifting down, brushing under the edge of Jaskier’s pants, brushing against the trail of hair it finds there.

Jaskier shivers at the touch, feels the growing heat in his groin, cock straining in his pants. He thrusts up, trying to chase the touch, wanting those rough fingers to wander down further. But Geralt doesn’t let him, doesn’t give him what he wants, hand shifting up with Jaskier’s body.

He growls out at that, grinding down against Geralt in frustration. Geralt growls in answer, teeth scraping against Jaskier’s neck, the threat of a bite ghosting over the skin. Jaskier shifts at the press, the hint of teeth at his throat. Wanting more, wanting the pain.

He reaches up, tugs hard on Geralt’s hair once more, hoping to force a response- the teeth sink into the skin, sink in deep.

He gasps, cries out at the pressure, the sharp, comfortable pain in his neck. It stings ever so beautifully.

Geralt hums against his skin in answer, a comfortable, warm sound.

Jaskier groans, shifts, all but rubbing himself against Geralt’s body, skin warm, burning under the Witcher’s touch. Blood drying cold against his skin.

Geralt growls, nipping at the skin, lapping up the blood the bite had drawn, nuzzled against Jaskier.

He groans again at the move.

Geralt hums in answer, hand finally moving again to pull loose the strings on Jaskier’s pants, finally tugging them open. Rough fingertips finally brush against Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier gasps at that, gasps at the touch, body feeling as though it was on fire.

Geralt offers a soft growl, wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, feels the bard shiver at the touch, gasping at the feeling, hand still slick with blood, silky and smooth against Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier thrusts up into Geralt’s grip with a desperate, needy whine. Shifting, thrusting, hot and desperate. Hands clawing at Geralt’s back, nails digging in, leaving long red scratches carved into the Witcher’s skin.

Geralt growls, hand tightening ever so slightly, offering a light squeeze, comfortable and tight.

Jaskier shivers, gasping, groaning out in desperation, in _need_.

Geralt’s hand is slick against his flesh, slick and hot and wonderful.

He buries his head into Geralt’s neck, breathes in the wonderous scent of blood and sweat and heat.

It is sharp and sweet.

He moans, eyes fall shut as he thrusts up into Geralt’s fist.

Body shivers, shakes, Geralt growls, chest rumbling at the sound, teeth scrape against skin-

Jaskier gasps, orgasm hitting quickly, suddenly reaching release. He spills out over Geralt’s hand, splattering up, over Geralt’s chest, his own as well, cum mixed with the heat and sweat coating their bodies.

Jaskier shivers against Geralt’s skin, shaking through the end of his orgasm. He sighs, tense muscles already relaxing, tension bleeding free from his body. Geralt hums, letting go of Jaskier’s cock to wrap strong arms around the bard’s body.

He offers a soft, comfortable sigh against the Witcher’s skin, a soft, warm sound.

Geralt grunts, shifts slightly, settling Jaskier more comfortably on his lap, suddenly speaking for the first time sense his return, “good, bard?”

Jaskier laughs at that, a light, comfortable sound, “gods, Geralt...good, very good.”

Geralt hums in answer, drags a hand along Jaskier’s chest, smearing blood and cum and sweat across the skin.

Jaskier crinkles his nose at the action, at the fluids drying uncomfortably against his skin. He knows they need to clean up, to uncurl and wipe clear the mess from their bodies.

But that was little more than a problem for later. A problem he would deal with when his face wasn’t pressed against Geralt’s skin, breathing in the sweat. Breathing in the blood.

It is soft and warm and comfortable, and everything he ever could have wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a normal hurt and comfort fic... can you tell I've been single for too long?


End file.
